


As if returning to the origin (of this universe)

by ImberReader



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And you can fit so much of it in a soulmate au /slaps roof of the fic, But truly incredibly brief, F/M, I ain't about that life, Implied brief J/C, Instead I'm all about that soft longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 01:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberReader/pseuds/ImberReader
Summary: The dreams start when he is ten.Most details fade out like old photographs left out in sun too long, but not theblue. It stays constant, soothing and almost mocking all at once through the years and glimpses of life that perhaps was once his, until Jaime finally finds the exact shade in her eyes. And then there is a new story to tell.





	As if returning to the origin (of this universe)

**Author's Note:**

> All of this happened because I wanted to write about wrist kiss. A friend and a tumblr anon is entirely to blame.
> 
> Originally planned to do it as an outtake of another Soulmate AU I am writing, but this gained life of its own. Suggested listening is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Itd0i_By5rQ), though title's from another song.
> 
> Not beta-d. We embarrass ourselves publicly like men. You can find me on [tumblr](https://scoundrels-in-love.tumblr.com/).

The dreams start when he is ten. 

If they can be called that - their edges are soft and hazy, blurred with the same lost time’s lense as any dream of early childhood memories with his mother. Trying to hold onto them in the morning light is near pointless, they trickle through his fingers until only a few vivid images remain. 

The first time, Jaime dreams of softly scattering snow and he  _ knows _ he should be cold where the wind nips at his face and ears, but he’s not, because she’s there above him, with a smile and tip of sword at his throat. “It seems you cannot claim your prize just yet, Ser.” 

The specifics of the wager elude him when he wakes and he cannot recall her face or her smile, just the brightness of it that had filled him with such warmth he scarcely recalls knowing in the waking world. As time passes, all that remains of the dream is a glint of golden pommel, pale snowflakes from paler sky and lingering warmth. And  _ blue _ , like a feeling more than anything, though how can color or its presence be a feeling, Jaime has no idea. 

He tells Cersei over breakfast that he hopes it snows this year in King’s Landing and she scoffs at him (a little too much like their father), because it’s the first day of school and winter months are so far still. 

\---

By thirteen, he has almost forgotten about it. While his room is a haphazard mess of Targaryen era knight items, poster of Goldenhand the Just and Blue Knight in place of honor on the wall across his bed, Jaime doesn’t think much of what propelled his research about the time even further. 

This time, the warmth doesn’t merely come from her - there’s a crackling fireplace on the edge of his vision, casting a dance of light and shadows across the  _ blue _ , as he once more stares up at her. Her hand is large and calloused, and perfect as it cradles his cheek. He takes it in his, thumb caressing over the delicate wrist bone and presses lingering kiss to the tattoo on her inner wrist. “Yours. Always yours,” he tells her, blooming with such warm peace it must be the gentlest kind of happiness known to man.

Jaime tries to chase the fading feeling as he wakes, groaning and burying his head in the pillow, but while the diluted memory of it lingers, it’s not what really  _ sticks _ with him. No, instead he discovers a faint imprint of heraldic lion reaching for starburst on his own wrist that morning. The same he had kissed in his dream. He stares at it in wonder and then tucks his sleeve over it in a hurry, his heart suspended in air between an excited swoop and elated leap. (He rather wishes it had picked one or the other, the floating feeling is more like a threat that flight downward will not curve back up.)

That night, he captures Cersei’s hand in the living room and brushes lips over her inner wrist. He immediately regrets it, not for the glare from his twin because someone could’ve seen, but for the overwhelming absence of anything to a point it feels like void. 

\---

Years come and pass, he tumbles in and then out of Cersei’s favor and bed. The dreams come rarely and irregularly, but almost taunting him each time he has not thought of them in too long or stops actually  _ noticing _ the slowly darkening image on his wrist. 

Images slowly pile up; green hills and sun that is just a little less blinding than a feeling of freedom, more of the lion-headed golden pommel, a night that tastes like foul, all consuming terror and more. Some of them are hazier, others more mature as he ages, but all of them are united by the sensation of  _ blue _ . 

In fruitless protest, Jaime surrounds himself even more with the Lannister red, because no matter how he searches, he can’t find the right shade of blue and every other tone seems like a mockery. Of him or the  _ blue _ , he’s not sure. Perhaps of both. 

The whole soulmate business, because apparently that’s what this is, feels a little like a twisted jeer in itself. And yet, in his darkest hours, when all he can see is green of wildfire behind his eyelids, he tries to summon her  _ blue _ to replace it, her voice to wash away Aerys’ laughter, her warmth to ward off the cold sweat clinging to him. It helps more often than not, though there’s bitter heaviness in his chest when he wonders if she would have held the Jaime of dreams if he had done all the things he has.

\---

The  _ blue _ finds him at thirty three, pierces him from across the room as he meets her gaze. The snapshots he has held onto gain some focus as the mist retreats from her features, though much of each scene is still obscured, but Jaime finds he doesn’t particularly care. There is a new story to write and he strides toward her to do just that. The prologue has been long enough, twenty years too long. He is coming home.


End file.
